


Ain't That a Kick in the Head

by goblinish



Series: The Best Is Yet to Come [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Post-Series, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:59:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinish/pseuds/goblinish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's just - I know it sounds crazy, but it's <i>Neal</i>. Doesn't it make more sense for him to be… <i>gallivanting</i> around the Louvre, free of suspicion?"</p><p>"No," Elizabeth says. "No, it doesn't."</p><p>Or: Three years, two months, and seventeen days after Neal's "death," an alarm goes off in the Met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't That a Kick in the Head

**Author's Note:**

> The ending of the series didn't work for me, emotionally or logically. I also hated the plot-line about art stolen by the Nazis. So I fixed them both. 
> 
> This is not the subtle plotty resolution that I personally want to read - it's basically just the scenes I needed to feel better about the end of the show. Also: do not expect realism re: law enforcement or fine art. "LA LA FBI" and "mumble mumble art is fancy" pretty much encapsulate my approach on these matters.

It takes time to sink in. 

The relief is first. Then - delight. It's a small and plain thing but it takes Peter over like the sunrise, like the world is new. The world contains Neal Caffrey.

Diagrams, the Louvre, a mannequin with a bullet wound, a poison out of some spy movie. A key. How _goddamn crazy_ all this looks, but Neal dead has never made sense anyway. Neal wants Peter to know he's alive. Neal wants to play. 

_The hunt is on_ , and Peter smiles. 

**

It takes time to sink in. 

The key's the thing. Peter found it, all of it, because Neal wanted him to. So Neal wanted Peter to know that it was all a con. _Neal conned him._

But if Peter has that key it means Neal wants Peter to chase him, and Peter _wants_ to chase him. Peter was _good_ at chasing Neal. At catching him. Peter loves his wife and son with every beat of his steady heart, but to his surprise, he is not a man who can sit behind a desk and leave at six, not when Neal Caffrey is running. 

But Neal knew Peter would want to chase him. Neal is offering what Peter wants. 

Neal is still conning him.

**

Peter can't play this game anymore. 

**

See, the _other_ thing: he'd promised El, and she wasn't wrong to ask it of him. Peter took the promotion, and the desk, so he could be a father, so he could be - present. It was the right thing to do, of course, but more than that, it was the life he wanted for himself.

And if there's a small voice in the back of Peter's mind saying that Neal was supposed to be here, too - in New York, at the office, in Peter's life - Neal a free man working cases with the bureau, partnered with Diana, or maybe Jones - someone Neal trusted, someone Neal _chose_ \- and, damn it, Tuesday night dinners at the Burke's, whatever, anything - well. It seems incredible now that he'd ever thought it possible. That the greatest city in the world might be enough to keep Neal. 

Peter tells El about the shipping container thirteen days later. He tells her after he starts brushing up on his French in preparation for scanning Parisian newspapers, but before he starts calling in favors from friends in Interpol. He's not sure he wants to involve Interpol. 

El is more sympathetic than anyone should expect from an exhausted new mother. "Oh, honey," she says, and visibly gathers the strength to reason with him. 

Their infant son is finally asleep in her arms. Looking at the two of them makes Peter's chest ache, like his heart has grown too large, pressing on his ribs. Elizabeth looks tired and incomprehensibly beautiful, and Peter regrets ever mentioning Neal Caffrey. 

But Elizabeth laughs a little. "No, don't do that," she says. "Tell me."

For a moment Peter just stares at Neal in her arms - his son, their son - but then he reaches out to take him, careful not to wake him. "It's just - I know it sounds crazy, but it's _Neal_. Doesn't it make more sense for him to be… _gallivanting_ around the Louvre, free of suspicion?"

"No," Elizabeth says. Peter huffs, frustrated, but Elizabeth holds firm. "No, it doesn't, Peter. Neal loved you. And me too, maybe, and -" She pauses. "Oh."

Peter waits.

"I made him promise me," she says. "To keep you safe. Do you think he was trying…?"

El trails off, and Peter considers it. He supposes Neal could have conned _himself_ , into believing it was better for Peter and El if they thought he was dead. "I think he'd like to believe that," he says, and kisses her forehead. "But I also think he's at the Louvre."

"Gallivanting." 

"Yep," Peter says.

"Free of suspicion." 

"Very nearly."

There's an annoyed little line between El's eyebrows. "That little shit," she says.

Looking down at his son, asleep against his chest, Peter feels that Neal smile steal across his face like something he can't control. Maybe he can't. 

"Yep," he says.

**

Peter doesn't play the game, not really.

But he tracks Neal down, because he has to. El takes over reading most of the papers, because her French and Italian are both better than Peter's. Peter reads reports he shouldn't have access to and follows rumors from all over the world, tracks Neal across jobs with no visible connection, thefts almost no one notices, a subtle larcenous wind blowing through the great museums of Europe. Neal's work is barely noticed even by the community of thieves, let alone any form of law enforcement. 

Mozzie's vanished. Of course. 

Peter tracks Neal. He doesn't play and doesn't want to, but he _could_. He doesn't want to become someone who doesn't know where Neal Caffrey is. Who doesn't know Neal Caffrey.

**

Three years, two months, and seventeen days after Neal's "death," an alarm goes off in the Met that no one can account for. Private security yields nothing. The museum's budget doesn't allow for further investigation when nothing is missing, and Peter can't justify Bureau involvement for the same reason. Peter goes alone, just to check things out, as a personal favor to the director. 

He goes straight to the Sargent. 

Neal had once told him, charmingly smug, that it was fake. He'd even pointed out the principle discrepancies in color that marked it as such. 

Peter studies the painting for nearly an hour, and the thing is - he doesn't know if it's a real Sargent, but he knows it's not the same painting that Neal had thoroughly and cheerfully deconstructed as "a hack job." Someone has pulled a switch. 

Peter stays at the office late that night, trying to figure out when Neal left Venice. The last Peter had been aware, Neal was still anonymously returning artwork stolen during World War II, with a fair bit of recreational theft on the side. 

Peter goes on a quick walkabout to stretch his legs, and returns to find a ghost in his office.

Neal's hat is on the coat rack by the door, his jacket on the back of Peter's chair. Neal himself sits on the corner of Peter's desk, reading through Peter's analyses of his movements. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and he looks kind of nice in the dim light of the desk lamp, because he's Neal, and he's probably well aware of the effect. 

Neal looks up at Peter's approach and smiles, pleased to see him. "Hello Peter," he says, and Peter nods, says -

"I hoped you'd come back." 

Neal pauses, briefly nonplussed, which is why Peter said it. 

Neal lifts the papers in his hand: a news story about Francesco di Bonetti's miraculous discovery of his family's heirloom da Vinci sketches - long thought lost in the war but somehow folded between the pages of a book in his library - and a tourist's photograph of a crime scene in Amsterdam, with an abandoned fedora lying outside the cordoned area, circled in red. 

"You knew where I was," Neal replies.

"Not always."

"Yeah, it looks like you took a year to find me," Neal says, but if he takes pride in this, Peter can't tell. 

"A week, actually," Peter corrects. And then: "It took me a year to look."

There's a wealth of grief in the admission, and Peter lets the fact of it sink into the silence between them, unashamed. Peter doesn't want to give Neal too much power, but he also finds himself completely uninterested in trying to navigate whatever con Neal is running here. It's late. Peter should have called Elizabeth at least an hour ago, and suddenly he misses her, fiercely. He's tired. He doesn't want to play.

"Aw," Neal says. "Did you miss me?"

Peter laughs. "What, didn't you go to your funeral?"

Neal looks a little abashed. "Well, no," he replies, and his lips twist wryly. "Sorry to miss it." 

Peter has no answer to that, and doesn't try to find one. Neal looks back down at the papers he'd been rifling through, his attention caught by the photograph, so clearly recognizable as Amsterdam. 

"Why didn't you come after me?"

Peter couldn't have. Not without Bureau resources and international cooperation, neither of which he could have without explanations, and reports, and arrest warrants. "What for?"

Neal drops the papers, stands. "I missed you."

"I don't care," Peter says, which is a mistake. Too obviously a lie, and Neal is walking toward him. 

Neal reaches out and grasps Peter by the arms, leans in. "Yes, you do," Neal says into Peter's ear, low, and kisses first one cheek, then the other. It's lingering and affectionate, and for a moment Peter is frozen, unsure if this is a traveler's affectation or some kind of - of _seduction_. Either way, it's weirdly clumsy. 

"Don't," Peter says, with faint condescension. Neal blinks, looking genuinely taken aback. Neal is good at genuine.

Neal steps back. Regroups. "My apologies," he says, good-natured, easy. "So, then - well, how's my namesake?" And yes, there's the smugness. 

Peter smiles anyway, unable to stop himself. "Terrible twos."

Neal laughs, sure of himself again. "Is this where you make a joke about the resemblance?"

"Not in the least," Peter says contentedly. "He likes rules. He likes rules more than me." Neal Burke has very decided ideas on fairness, actually, which do not always coincide with rules; Peter decides not to share this. 

But Neal senior looks pleased. "As it should be." He pauses. "Do you regret the name?"

No. He never has. "Do you already know the answer to that?" Peter asks, and Neal's smile gentles as he answers, "Yes."

Peter sighs, and reaches for his coat from the rack. He wants to go home. "What do you want, Neal?"

Neal looks off to the side, and down, and shifts minutely; and then Peter starts to notice the way the low light of the desk lamp rests over Neal, gilds his hair and highlights the lines of him, broad shoulders and long legs and slim hips in sharp, impeccable tailoring; light and shadow cutting the planes of his wicked, beloved face. It's beautiful, and goddamned annoying. 

Neal doesn't look at him. Neal says, "I don't want you to regret me." 

Right, okay, that's enough. Peter turns away - pays particular attention to his coat, as if it were monumentally difficult to put one's arms in the sleeves - Peter is abruptly sick of himself, and Neal, and this conversation. He yanks the coat on and looks Neal in the eye. 

"Then stay."

Neal looks up. "And do what, Peter? Go straight? Law-abiding? Honest?"

Peter moves around Neal, leans over his desk, and pulls the scattered papers into a pile, shoving them in his briefcase. "Do anything you want, Neal." 

"Do I have to be that guy, Peter? For you to want me here?"

No, actually. That was always the problem. "You have to be that guy to _be_ here, Neal."

"That's not what I asked."

"Yeah, well, I want you here. You know that."

"I _am what I am_ -"

"You're my best friend!" Peter snaps, and that shuts Neal up. 

God, it's such a classic con to fall prey to, but - Neal had died, had said _Peter_ was his best friend and then _died_ , and isn't it just too easy to like someone who likes you? Isn't that the foundation of Neal Caffrey? But for a year, Neal had been Peter's dead best friend: a con by nature, a thief by inclination but reformed by _choice_ , and Peter had missed him and mourned him and he'd been conned, had he _really_ just been so thoroughly _conned_? 

No. Peter's anger has an almost desperate, scrabbling edge to it as he says, "Go into business, Neal. Break into museums to test their security. Paint forgeries to test experts. Crack safes -"

"Catch thieves?"

"You were good at it. I bet you still are."

Neal hesitates. He looks almost yearning, and damn everything, but Peter believes it.

"Why are you here, Neal? If you don't want me to - to make this possible for you, what are you _doing_?"

Neal sucks in a harsh breath. "I missed you," he says again, quiet, sincere.

"I know. Stop conning me."

"I'm not-"

Peter shuts off the desk lamp, and darkness falls gently over the room. He heads for the door. "Come to dinner. We'll talk."

Neal grabs his coat, his hat. He drifts out after Peter. "Well. I'd love to see El. To meet -"

"You can't corrupt our son," Peter says, as they walk through the bullpen together.

"I just want to meet him!"

"I think he'll like you," Peter says, though he's not actually sure it's true. His son doesn't really take to new people. "And El would love to see you," he finishes, because she would, even if she'd also like to beat him soundly around the head with little Neal's stuffed penguin.

"So… she knows about me?"

Peter rolls his eyes, jabs the elevator button. "Of course. I told her. No one else. Are you coming to dinner?"

Peter steps into the elevator and waits. Neal hesitates just a moment, then flips his hat in his hand, slides it over his hair, and steps in after him.

**

El is going to whack them both with the penguin.

**

In the bottom of El and Peter's dresser, in a false drawer made specifically to store it, is a folder of papers Peter drew up concerning Neal Caffrey's undercover work in Europe. Under direction of the FBI (so the documents suggest), Caffrey restored to their proper owners artworks stolen by the Nazis during World War II, which had been recovered in questionable circumstances by the Bureau and thus, damaging to U.S. diplomatic relations if openly returned via official channels. Caffrey's mission was to see them returned more… covertly. It began by faking his death to ensure ease of movement in his work. No one could know of it.

Thanks to Peter's new position, this case file required no forged signatures, but it did require a good deal of creativity regarding its dating. It's a fine bit of work. Peter rather thinks Neal will like it.


End file.
